


Foundation

by buttered_onions



Series: Like Those Before: a Star Wars/Voltron AU [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A prequel of sorts, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Keith (Voltron)-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10057886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttered_onions/pseuds/buttered_onions
Summary: “Wait,” Lance says, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I thought you said you’ve known Shiro all your life.”“I might as well have,” Keith says.The story of how Keith and Shiro meet.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mumblefox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblefox/gifts).



> Happy birthday, [mumblefox!](http://mumblefox.tumblr.com) I am a day late but this should more than make up for that. Considering we met through mutual love of Star Wars, quickly spilling into Voltron, this seems fitting. What an honor to write this for you. :) I hope your upcoming year is blessed and full of new adventures, both surprising and expected <3 
> 
> It is also important to note that this is not the winner of the [AU Continuation Poll](http://butteredonions.tumblr.com/post/156895242448/in-celebration-of-200-250-300-followers-so) I did.........this is birfday. :3
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual, and I regret none of the things. Enjoy!

**15\. Keith is a Jedi Knight, young and finally out in the field.**

He’s a model Jedi, even if the Padawan haircut is only barely grown out. He’s skilled with a lightsaber, strong in the Force. He always completes his missions. If his methods are sometimes unorthodox, whatever. He lives by the Code and that’s all that matters. Keith doesn’t have a missions partner. He doesn’t want one. Working alone suits him. It’s easier. It’s fine.

Keith’s a Jedi Knight, now, and Keith doesn’t really have friends.

Some Jedi do. Most, maybe. There’s preferred partnerships, solid field bonds and teams that go out on a regular basis: helping planets, saving people. Those kind of bonds are what happens in a mutual society of...highly specialized coworkers, maybe. A unified group like the Jedi has to have at least some friendships. Something. Keith wouldn’t know.

Keith’s a Jedi Knight, and he knows his duty.

Attachment’s not a part of the Jedi code. It’s Forbidden, and for good reason. You’re supposed to have no contact with your birth family, your home planet. That’s why you’re taken young, trained early. You’re supposed to not mind who you’re paired with on missions. You’re supposed to not mind who your roommate is, if you have one. You’re supposed to be able to let go on the back end at a moment’s notice, no matter the circumstances. Keith knows.

Keith’s a new Jedi Knight, and Keith knows his history.

Attachment leads to _preference_ which leads to _difficult choices_ which leads to _impossible._ A Jedi shouldn’t _prefer._ If you value some physical objects more than others - what kind of choice is that if you have to make one, in the end? If you value someone’s life over the lives of others - what kind of choice is that if you’re called to face it, in the end? A Jedi’s allegiance is to the Force. None other. That’s the way of it. That’s the Code.

Keith’s a Jedi Knight, now, and he’s not going to forget.

Beyond the noble and the selfless and the right reasons, the simple fact Keith lives by is that attachments just get you hurt. It is the single most important lesson his Master ever taught him.

Keith is a Jedi Knight, and Jedi like him work alone.

 

**14\. The room assignment is an accident.**

“You’re kidding,” Keith says tightly.

“Jokes are not in my programming,” the quartermaster droid chirps at him. Two of its six arms are already pulling a stack of bedding from the storage shelves behind it. Another two arms tap away at a console. “I apologize for the inconvenience. You are not the only one in need of relocation at this time.”

Keith’s dripping wet, socks sloshing in his boots and sticking uncomfortably to cold feet. Everything he owns, which isn’t much, is soaking and ruined thanks to a water break in the apartment right above his own. After a long week off-site, all Keith wanted was to get home, get to sleep, and get a stupid shower.

One of which he got, thanks to that kriffing pipe burst directly over the door. It wasn’t warm.

Keith can’t believe this.

The droid clicks to itself, taking Keith’s horrified silence as acquiescence. “Unfortunately many of your preferred alternate locations are full up. If you had come yesterday - ”

“I was on a mission,” Keith grits out. “I just got back.”

“Ah,” the droid says, either in triumph or in programmed sympathy. Keith can’t tell and doesn’t care. “There’s an opening. East Wing; upper floor, even. How do you feel about a roommate?”

“No,” Keith says, flat-out.

“I’ll put you there,” the droid chirps, its programmed mouth attempting a robotic smile in Keith’s direction. “Cheer up, Knight Kogane. Your new roommate is in the Outer Rim currently and isn’t scheduled back for three days. It should be plenty of time to air out your quarters and return you to your original lodging. Best I can do.”

No. No, it’s far from the best. Keith _hates_ this. He’d - the old apartment hadn’t been great, sure, but Keith was used to it and that was enough. He knew the space. He had years under that roof, tucked in the north corner of the Temple, creaking floors and the one cupboard that never stayed closed. Keith doesn’t have much, but he had that.

And now that’s gone, in favor of a _roommate?_

“Can I sleep in the hall instead?”

“Negative,” says the droid, “but I will do you the favor of comming your new roommate so he is not alarmed should he return early. Chances are you’ll miss each other entirely. Here is a bedding replacement. If yours can be salvaged we will deliver them.”

 

At first glance, Apartment 875 isn’t much.

The kitchenette’s tiny, only slightly bigger than Keith’s old one. The countertop is empty except for a fairly decrepit looking machine that’s probably meant to brew caf. Definitely caf, Keith concludes, after sniffing the mug left in the sink. There’s also a bowl, stained halfway up the insides with something yellow and crusted. Gross. Keith wrinkles his nose but leaves be. He’s not going to be here long enough to care.

The living space boasts a couch that’s seen better days, as well as a small low table. Some holopads are stacked on it, several more gracing semi-filled shelves on the wall. A single plant’s on the shelves too, set up with an auto-waterer tucked beneath its wide blue-green leaves. The machine chugs happily away, the plant no less content for its owner’s absence. Kind of clever, Keith admits grudgingly. Maybe.

The biggest difference from his old apartment, and what really catches his attention, is the balcony.

Keith dumps his bedding on the dingy couch and beelines for the outer door, flinging it open, stepping out.

The fresh air hits him in the face. It burns into his eyes, slams into his nostrils. Keith sucks in a deep breath and lets it out, explosively. Another. It’s not the cleanest air: Coruscant certainly isn’t known for that. It’s not the quietest air either: the hustle and bustle of ships coming and going from the Temple is constant, not to mention the whir of traffic in the distant main skyways of the skyscrapers themselves. The air here is nothing other than what it is.

But to Keith, wanderer Keith who’s never known anything other than the waiting lounges of ships and the halls of this Temple, this air is home.

Keith doesn’t have much. He never has. Losing his apartment was a shock. But this?

Maybe this won’t be so bad, for three days.

 

**13\. It doesn’t take three days.**

With no one else around, Keith makes himself at home.

There’s a second Force signature here other than Keith’s, sure, but absence means it isn’t strong. It clings distant and dull in corners, left behind like faded fingerprints on door panels. A single cloud, far away on the horizon. Keith can’t really read it. He doesn’t care to.

He refills the auto-waterer when it runs out, beeping sadly and persistently until Keith takes care of it. He pushes the low table against the wall to make more room, revelling in the simplicity of having enough space in his own quarters to stretch. He glances at the holopads on the table and shelves - resisting at first, but all Keith’s holopads are out for repairs thanks to the water damage, and Keith’s bored. He buys some fresh tea leaves and tucks the packets in the top cabinet next to a somewhat-impressive stash of caf. He eyes the decrepit caf machine on the counter. His own dishes join the dirty mug in the sink.

The yellow-crusted bowl Keith ignores entirely. He’ll be gone long before it matters.

Keith meditates outside, cross-legged on the balcony. He watches the traffic in the distance. He breathes.

It might almost be a shame to leave this.

 

The apartment’s other inhabitant returns midway through the second day.

Keith’s just finishing his basic katas in the little sitting room, table still pushed to the wall as he runs through the movements fluidly and with ease. The Force trills a warning.

That’s putting it lightly. The Force, curled around Keith warm and content like the pleasant lure of a fireplace, _hums at him._ In the exact same breath the door panel to the hall swishes open.

Keith drops his stance and whirls.

“Oh,” says Shiro. Equal surprise mirrors on his face. A bag’s slung over his shoulder, as dirty as his traveling robes. He’s back. He’s here. He’s _early._ “Hey.”

 

**12\. Shiro is a young Jedi Knight, just like Keith.**

He’s not as recent of a Knight, in that he’s been in the field a bit longer. Keith’s sharing an apartment with the _youngest Jedi Knight in five centuries._ Seven centuries? Twenty-nine? Whatever. It doesn’t matter to Keith.

He’s known Shiro their entire lives, sure: Keith’s known _of_ him. They were barely in creche together. Shiro was a year or so up; Keith can’t remember now. Keith was picked young for his apprenticeship, the first of his group. The age-gap meant Shiro was chosen around the same time, and things just - their paths didn’t exactly cross. There were enough Jedi to go around, and with circumstances being what they were they never really ran into one another after that. They’ve heard of each other, of course. Impossible not to when your Masters were friends. Acquaintances? It’s not like Keith can ask.

It doesn’t matter. Shiro’s just a young Jedi, like Keith. Shiro’s just a young Jedi, sharing an apartment for one more day. Shiro’s just a young Jedi, famous for a stupid streak of white in his hair. Keith knows the tale.

But knowing _of_ Shiro and living _with_ Shiro are two entirely different things.

 

“Bad news?” Shiro asks, the afternoon of Keith’s Day Three.

Shiro’s a surprisingly quiet roommate so far, honestly. Whatever mission he’s back from must have been tiring; after a cursory attempt at small talk (brief and surprisingly easy), Shiro’d vanished straight into his room and slept for most of the next day. If he’d been awake later it was in the middle of the night when Keith was asleep. Shiro’s door was closed in the morning when Keith awoke. They’ve largely missed each other completely, two orbits not even close to colliding.

Shiro’s up now, though, yawning at the caf machine while it grumbles its way to making a cup. The machine’s gears moan and whine loudly, noises Shiro ignores completely in favor of leaning on the counter and blinking at Keith. Keith, who definitely didn’t just slam the comm unit back in place on the wall, hard enough it’s not cracked. It’s _not._ (He checks.)

“Water damage,” Keith groans, resisting the urge to just lay his head against the wall and disappear for a second. “Extensive. They’re not - they don’t think - _water damage.”_

“Oh,” Shiro says. Though he doesn’t care, though he _does not care,_ Keith risks a glance over. Shiro’s frowning at the caf machine, a little crease on his forehead. He doesn’t look pleased in the slightest.

Keith doesn’t care. He _can’t._

“Do you need help moving your things?” Shiro asks.

There it is. Of course. The Force hums around Keith, crooning at his disappointment. Even if he knew this was coming, it still stings. “No. I didn’t bring much. I’ll go ask the quartermaster for another space.”

“What?” Shiro jerks his head up abruptly. Confusion whirls in his dark eyes, wide and open. “Why would you do that?”

Keith blinks, frowning too. “My stuff. You said - "

The exact moment the realization hits Shiro is palpable, rippling through the other Jedi like a terrible shock.

“Oh, no,” Shiro says, straightening up immediately. “No, Keith, that’s not what I meant.”

“You made yourself pretty clear,” Keith snaps, pushing away from the wall. Shiro’s in between him and his room; kriffing. Keith heads for the balcony instead.

“That’s not - Keith, _wait,”_ Shiro says. He runs a hand through his hair, the movement jerked and frustrated. “I’m sorry. I’m not fully awake yet.”

“It’s mid-afternoon,” Keith retorts.

“You have to know me for at least two days before you can make fun of my sleep schedule,” Shiro cuts in, and Keith opens his mouth to complain - but there’s a little glint in Shiro’s eyes. Humor. He’s laughing.

No. He’s _teasing._ Teasing - _Keith?_

“At least two days,” Keith repeats, confused.

Shiro shrugs, a casual roll of one shoulder. “I don’t have a consistent sleep schedule at the moment. If you gave me a week I’d probably get there. What I _meant_ was, if you need help moving your things _here_ , I’m more than happy to. I have time.”

All the anger bleeds out of Keith, quick and strange like a hole in a balloon. The Force takes it from him happily, thin and gone.

“Oh,” Keith says, weakly.

“It came out wrong,” Shiro admits. “I’m sorry. You can stay as long as you want to. It’s not my place to decide for you how long that is.”

“Oh,” Keith says, again, because any actual words are for some reason a little difficult to find right now. He can’t - he’s never - what? “I - no. I don’t have things. This is - this is it.”

Shiro’s frown deepens. There’s no new holopads on the low table; only a handful more dishes in the sink. Keith’s biggest contribution to whatever-this-living-arrangement-is is sitting in the cupboard next to Shiro’s terrible collection of caf beans. “Really?”

“Really,” Keith says. There’s no sense in getting attached to belongings. He’s used to it. “I’m - I - I can’t. Stay here. Not like this.”

The Coruscant traffic in the distance is terribly loud. The caf machine grumbles, still not finished.

“What are you saying?” Shiro asks, finally.

“I’m saying this is _yours,”_ Keith says. “It’s _your_ space. Not mine.”

“It’s the Temple’s space,” Shiro argues. “I just crash here in between missions. It’s no more mine than anyone else’s.”

“It’s more yours than anything I have,” Keith snaps back, and wow, that came out - he didn’t mean - that was harsh.

Shiro flinches. Keith does, too.

The Force hangs in the air between the two young Jedi, thick and unsure. A hesitant wind shifts through the open balcony door, tentative, faint. The back of Keith’s neck is warm.

“It’s your home,” Keith manages, at last.

“ ‘Home’ is a broad term when you’re never really here,” Shiro says, slowly. The caf machine gurgles one last time and beeps, finally ready. Shiro picks up the steaming mug. “If you want to ask the Quartermaster for a new apartment, that’s your right. And it certainly isn’t my place to stop you. But don’t do it because of me.”

 

**11\. The Quartermaster droid tells Keith to call back in the morning.**

The second Keith walks into the shared sitting room to make the call, however, something feels - _different._

Traffic hums in the distance. The sun’s thinking of coming up, breaking through smoggy clouds. The auto-waterer clicks away on the plant, refilled.

“Shiro?”

The name slips from his lips before Keith can stop it.

There’s no answer. The apartment is ringed in silence, sheathed in calm. The Force murmurs quietly to itself, still and easy. The lingering Force presence Keith now knows is Shiro’s is brighter,  yes, but already starting to fade off the edges of the couch, the handle of the caf machine.

Shiro’s not here.

Disappointment curls in Keith’s chest, tight and - surprising. _Disappointment?_ Why? He’s barely known Shiro for two days.

It doesn’t matter. Keith’s not sticking around. He has a call to make.

As Keith passes the kitchenette something catches his gaze. A small light winks up at him from the countertop, steady and green.

Keith pauses.

It’s the blinking light of a unique form of holopad: a transcription unit. It’s not one of the long-range models. This edition’s primarily meant for easy and quick reminders - memos, mostly, or simple lists. A stylus sits neatly on the counter next to the small unit. The light blinking up at Keith is green, the gentle signal of a _message waiting_.

Keith, curious despite himself, leans over and taps _open._

A note, an _actual note_ scrawled in terrible chickenscratch Aurebesh, zips into projection above the unit.

 _Was called in for an emergency,_ it reads. The handwriting’s awful. _I’ll be back in four days. Want to spar when I get in? If you’re still here too. No pressure. - S_

There’s a terrible sketched set of lines in the bottom corner. It takes Keith a second to figure out what the hell it is: two Jedi, sparring with lightsabers that are probably supposed to be blue and green.

Keith stares, mouth slightly agape. The note projects in the air in front of him, shimmering and bright.

How had Shiro known Keith’s lightsaber is green?

It can’t matter. Keith’s only been here for three days. Surely he’ll be gone in another four. Keith’s hand hovers over the unit to delete the note.

And yet…

….and yet.

 

The Force whispers.

 

**10\. Shiro returns the promised four days later tired, content, and to an empty apartment.**

“Keith?”

There’s no answer. The burning whisper in the Force that Shiro noticed immediately when he came home the last time is gone. The heat’s waned, like a mug of tea left to cool on the counter. Shiro lets the door swish shut behind him and tries to hide his dismay.

From who? No one is here. The Force signature is old and fading. Keith’s apartment must be fixed. He’s gone, like he said he would be. There’s no reason to be upset. Shiro steps further into his apartment, ready to toss his bag on the couch and not think about things for a few days.

Until he catches sight of the transcription ‘pad, left behind on the counter. It’s still on, but the light blinking at him now is a steady, strong shade of blue.

 _Called on a mission too,_ Keith’s note says, when Shiro flings himself across the room to tap it open. Keith’s handwriting is surprisingly neat. _And - sure. When I get back. I’m assuming yours is blue?_

Shiro gapes. Beneath the note is a kind-of-remarkable little drawing of two Jedi - detailed down to the curling hairs at the nape of one of their necks, the little streak of white in the tuft of another. The tuft-haired one has a blue lightsaber.

The other Jedi’s is green.

Grinning wide, Shiro grabs the stylus to scribble back.

 

**09\. They spend more time apart than they do together.**

For a long while the swapped messages on the holo-unit are their only form of communication, a haphazard scattering of growing notes.

 _Didn’t want to wake you; got in late,_ Shiro writes, in messy handwriting that Keith wakes up to one morning. _Think you’re here but I may be out again very early. ADDED: Definitely out. Sorry if the caf machine woke you._

 _It didn’t,_ Keith writes back, _even if it is as loud as a dying yelmor. I’m out on a two-week. Are they giving you a break after this one? Also when you get back wash that stupid bowl in the sink, it’s growing mold again._

 _What did my caf machine ever do to you?_ is Shiro’s response, found sixteen days later. _Back in five days. Will I see you?_

 _No,_ Keith scribbles on the ‘pad. _Wash your bowl._

He misses Shiro by twelve hours. The return note Keith finds instead is a measly three words. _Patience yields focus._

Keith checks. The bowl is still in the sink.

 _Patience grows mold,_ Keith counters, and faceplants straight into bed.

 

The blinking green of the holopad becomes as familiar as the click of the auto-waterer, the steady distant hum of Coruscant traffic. There’s something undeniably nice about coming home to a consistency.

 _Don’t go to Naboo,_ Shiro’s written, one evening. _I’ll never be dry again. Left my boots in the ‘fresher; sorry._

 _At least they’re not growing mold,_ Keith writes back, on his way out the door the next morning. _Unlike something else of yours. Which is still in the sink._

 _Do you have something against harboring native lifeforms?_ Shiro’s next message retorts, and Keith actually laughs out loud. _Sorry. Keep forgetting. I’m promised a teaching assignment after this, will you be around? Still owe you a spar._

 _You do,_ Keith writes, _It’s fine_. _Wash your kriffing bowl._

 

Keith’s usually a light sleeper, but for some stupid reason the Force never sees fit to wake him the handful of brief occasions Shiro and Keith actually inhabit the same apartment at the same time.

Except once.

Keith half-wakes in the late afternoon one day, off-kilter with a nonexistent sleep schedule of his own and exhausted from a long, terrible mission. For the first time, Keith half-wakes to the grind and grumble of a brewing machine - no. Keith wakes to a deep voice humming out in the kitchen. The Force hums along, the traitor.

Keith should get up. He should roll out of bed, go say hello. That’s what normal people do, right? People who live together?

He’s exhausted, though, tired all the way down to his bones. Lately every mission’s been worse than the one before. Keith’s body is apparently determined to go back to sleep. His limbs are heavy; not even the Force seems interested in moving. He flops back down instead.

The humming doesn’t stop. Keith’s eyes drift closed. It’s almost - nice.

Outside in the kitchen the humming ceases. Through the Force comes a tiny little inquiry, a gentle brush like a breeze against the outer shield of Keith’s thoughts. It’s cautious, tentative. Almost like a hello.

 _‘m not awake,_ Keith thinks sleepily at it.

The breeze colors with what might be laughter and retreats. The humming resumes, but quieter, and distinctly more….fond.

Shiro isn’t there when Keith finally troops out of his room much later, but the holopad’s blinking green. Next to the ‘pad is a clean mug.

 _Caf helps with sleep schedules,_ says the holonote, with an arrow precisely pointing towards the caf machine, as well as an ancient form of smiling-face Shiro definitely drew himself. It’s lopsided. It’s crooked.

It really shouldn’t warm Keith’s heart as much as it does.

 _Tea is better,_ he writes back instead. _You didn’t wake me. Mission again? I’m off-planet starting tonight. Three days._

 _Internal,_ Shiro manages, in the single hour Keith steps out to run one errand. _Take some caf with you, I have plenty._

Most of Shiro’s caf stash is expired. Not that Keith’s been checking.

 _The ship has hot water for tea,_ Keith counters, and goes.

 

One morning Keith returns to their apartment, automatically scoops the left-behind caf mug into the sink, and stops short.

The holopad’s moved.

Just an inch, really, but it’s moved. It’s moved to make way for a tiny little plant, perched happily on the counter in a small pot. The plant’s already set up with its own little waterer, whistling happily as the machine lightly mists the red leaves and wide petals.

Staring, Keith fumbles open the holopad’s message, dragging his eyes away to read it.

 _I’m here, but asleep,_ says the note.

Oh.

Keith reaches without thought. It’s true. Shiro’s presence in the Force is here, a warm cloud cottoned in slumber just down the hall. Keith lightly brushes against it, a simple burr of heat.

The cloud shifts with a sleepy grumble.

Keith recoils, pulling back in alarm. He tucks his own Force presence in on himself so fast his skin burns. His heart’s pounding.

Nothing happens. The clouds roll thick, settling as Shiro’s Force signature murmurs straight back to deep sleep. He’s quiet. The apartment is still.

Keith exhales shakily and reads the rest of the note.

 _This little fellow was a gift,_ Shiro’s terrible handwriting says _. Yours if you want?_

The plant is barely taller than Keith’s forearm. He touches the crimson petals with the pads of his fingers. The petals are soft.

No one’s ever left him something before.

 

Keith worries about it all the way through his next mission. When he gets back the apartment’s empty; for once Keith’s actually grateful. He carefully sets the small box down next to the small plant, his heart in his throat.

This is stupid.

This is so stupid.

 _Mission was fine,_ he taps out in response to Shiro’s most recent note. He has to do this before he can change his mind. _This came from Tibessen. It’s culturally significant, apparently. Something to do with the marking across the middle. Look it up, I think you’d like it._

He leaves the perfectly square box next to the plant with the red petals, which is miraculously still alive, and books it out of the apartment before he can change his mind.

 

The oblong rock’s out of its little travel box and sitting on the counter the next time Keith returns. Keith takes one look at it and bursts out laughing.

A _tiny little frowning face_ made entirely out of electrical tape is fastened along the middle of the Culturally Significant Rock.

 _I named him Keith,_ says the holopad proudly. _Since I never see you._

 _I named the plant Shiro,_ Keith retorts on his way out the door. He cannot stop smiling. _How was Tatooine?_

 

It just goes from there.

There’s a bag of tea on the counter the next time they miss each other. The leaves smell funny but Keith tries them anyway. He’s awake for eighteen hours straight. He buys Shiro a bag of fresh caf beans as payback. He isn’t around to see the results, but the Force is _wide awake_ and _delighted_ in the tight corners of their apartment when Keith gets in, and there’s so many holonotes on the ‘pad Keith’s frankly surprised they haven’t run out of storage space yet.

 _You are an enabler,_ says Shiro’s last message. _Stop buying me caf beans._

 _Stop bringing me tea,_ Keith replies.

Neither of them do.

 

**08\. For whatever reason, one day the Council stops buying Keith’s insistence that he prefers to work alone.**

They invest in finding him an ‘appropriate’ mission partner. It’s awful. Keith’s sent on mission after mission with Jedi after Jedi he’s never met and doesn’t care about. It’s a total waste of time. Keith’s only consolation is that Shiro’s apparently going through the same thing.

 _I’ve been at this for years,_ Shiro explains in the note Keith finds one afternoon, a while into their haphazard communication. _I need a missions partner_ **_now?_ ** _It’s like they don’t trust me._

 _Maybe if you didn’t make a habit of trying to get blown up on every mission,_ Keith writes back.

_It was one time, thank you very much._

_Shay down in medical says otherwise. Or was that “three blood transfusions” for someone else with a streak of white in his hair?_

_Someone else,_ Shiro writes back immediately (‘immediately’ is a day and a half.) _Are you checking up on me? Keith, I’m touched. I’m alright._

 _Your definition of alright needs help,_ Keith writes back as soon as he reads it, fast and heated. _You need to tell me -_

He stops. The stylus hovers over the waiting ‘pad.

No, Shiro doesn’t. They aren’t that close. They’ve hardly ever been in the same room.

Right?

 _You should tell me these things,_ Keith writes instead, and signs off.

 

Then the Council sets Keith up on the worst mission of his life.

“It was _terrible,”_ Keith reports, resisting the urge to just lay his head on the counter and be done with it. “He’s annoying, he’s loud, Shiro the only reason he stopped talking at all was because the falling beam hit him in the head and knocked him out. I had to _carry him_ the entire way back to the ship. The entire way!”

There’s no answer, of course. The apartment’s dark and empty, the familiar presence of _someone else_ in the Force as muted as it’s ever been. Keith’s bag is slung at his feet by the counter and he’s probably been talking at this stupid transcription unit next to the caf machine and a plant and a rock for the better part of five minutes. The stylus is missing. The _record_ button was just faster.

“I don’t know how he got Knighted,” Keith continues, with a frustrated sigh. “I really don’t. Showing off for all the ‘alien ladies’ we met! Not just the ladies; if it had legs he was flirting with it. Like that matters when there was work to do. It nearly got us killed. It’s - I can’t stand him, Shiro. If you get assigned to work with Lance, run. Just run.”

 _Duly noted,_ Shiro might say, when he writes back. Keith swallows.

“I had to _carry him back,”_ he repeats. “I don’t know how he got Knighted in the first place. If you’d been there - I don’t care what the Council says, that mission shouldn’t have failed and everyone there knew it. And the worst part - ”

The Force hums at his feet, tugging at his anger. Is it anger or embarrassment that rolls in his chest, burns up his cheeks?

It shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be upset by Lance’s quip, offhanded though it may have been. Keith closes his eyes but it doesn’t help. He can still see Lance’s stupid face, the defensive fold of his arms.

_Gee, no wonder no one wants to work with you._

The auto-waterers click away on the plants, quiet and steady. Traffic hums in the distance. The Force lingers in the corners, waiting. Still.

“I’m not mad,” Keith says, after a time. The heat’s still there, tight, upset, but bleeding more and more the longer he sits. It’s shame that curls in his chest now, bitter and old. “I just…”

The holopad beeps at him. Keith blinks.

 _Low data storage,_ says the warning message flashing above the unit. _Delete old messages to make space?_

Delete?

Keith hesitates. There’s just enough space for a handful more of words. If the unit’s full, that means Shiro can’t respond. Keith will never hear what he has to say. He’s surprised by how fiercely that knowledge twists in his gut.

Keith can’t bring himself to delete any of the old messages, either.

The holopad beeps again in warning.

“I don’t know, Shiro,” Keith concludes softly, finally. The ‘pad beeps. The waterer clicks. The Force hums. “Maybe I really am meant to do this alone.”

 

**07\. He has every intention of deleting the message.**

For one reason or another that doesn’t happen. In the morning there’s a flurry of activity; the entire day runs forward and out, quick and fast. Keith’s gone for exactly one evening, but that’s all it takes.

Shiro’s Force presence is immediately tangible when Keith steps in. Shiro’s lingering signature in the Force is bright on the edges of the walls, the cabinets, the countertops. Shiro’s been here. He’s been home.

Worse, the holopad isn’t blinking.

Oh no. Oh _no -_

Keith races into the kitchen.

Stops.

A new holo-transcription unit beams up at him from the counter. The old one’s tucked back against the wall, the plant and the rock guarding it like bookends. The light on the new unit beckons happily, calm and blue.

As if in a daze, Keith distantly, numbly, hits _play._

 _“Hey, Keith,”_ says Shiro. The hologram hovers immediately over the surface of the new ‘pad. It’s only recorded Shiro from the shoulders up, but his holoform’s definitely smiling, small but true. Keith breathes out a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding. _“Surprise: someone filled up the last unit, so I found one with more storage. Hope it works. It was good to hear your voice.”_

“It’s good to hear yours,” Keith says quietly to the recording, before he can stop himself.  He leans his elbows on the counter, rests his chin on his forearms. Shiro talks over him.

 _“This one’s got a holocam, too - I mean, as you can probably tell.”_ Shiro laughs, a sheepish sound the hologram doesn’t entirely capture. Keith finds himself smiling, too. “ _So I thought I’d test it out, see if we like it. I just got back...“_

Shiro’s voice fills the apartment much like his Force signature, drifting to walls, slipping neatly into cracks. The only light in the room is that of the blue hologram, even as it gets dark outside, as Keith hits _replay_ and listens again, and again, and again.

 _“If it was that bad of a mission, the Council will probably never pair the two of you together again,”_ recorded-Shiro says, for the third time. _“I’m sorry it was so bad for you. That’s hard. About what you said at the end, though.”_

Shiro pauses. Keith’s breath is in his throat.

 _“You’ll find someone,”_ holo-Shiro says, and the way he speaks sounds like a promise. _“Try not to worry too much. Just remember: patience yields focus. Sometimes - sometimes that helps me.”_

Patience yields focus.

Keith closes his eyes.

 _“You’ll get there,”_ Shiro says, to Keith. Something beeps off-screen. Shiro glances off at it, frowning slightly. _“I’ve got to go. This is a quicker stop than I thought it would be. You out again? I’ll be back later this week. Still haven’t forgotten about our spar. Take care, Keith.”_

 _I haven’t either,_ Keith wants to say, as the room slips all the way into night, as the automated lights don’t come on because he hasn’t moved. The Force hums around his feet, in his chest, warm and lazy like summer air. _Shiro, I haven’t either._

He hits play again.

 

**06\. Their streak of absences ends as abruptly as it began.**

Keith wakes up to a terrific crash in the outer room. The noise doesn’t drown out the frustrated exclamation of _“Force, no,”_ that also echoes down the hall.

Keith’s up and out of bed before he’s even aware his feet are moving. The Force moves with him, awake and alight like embers beneath his skin. It’s absolutely nothing compared to the bitter distress swirling in the kitchen.

Around Shiro.

Keith skids to a stop.

Shiro is in the kitchen - Keith’s kitchen - _their_ kitchen. He’s fully dressed in his Jedi robes, staring in bleary dismay at the caf machine. The machine puffs a miserable waft of grey smoke into the air.

“Caf machine broken?” Keith asks.

“Yes,” Shiro grumbles. “I’m supposed to - ”

It hits them both at the same time. Shiro’s head whips towards Keith alarmingly fast; he stares, jaw agape in a little ‘o’. Keith stares back, just as surprised. The Force settles between them, preening.

“Oh,” Shiro says at last, weakly. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Keith says, just as awkwardly.

There is a pregnant pause.

Shiro sets the empty mug in his hands down on the countertop. He’s still staring. “You’re here.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, eloquently. “I mean, yes. I live here.”

“I do too,” Shiro manages, just as verbose.

“I know.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

The early morning traffic hums in the distance, far beyond. The machine on the counter spews out another belch of smoke.

Shiro gestures to the holopads. “Thanks for all the - ”

“Oh,” Keith blurts, “No, I’m not - ”

“It helps,” Shiro says, quietly, “Having something to come back to.”

Oh.

All this time, and Keith’d never even thought. Tapping open green messages, leaving blue ones; in all this time, it somehow never occurred to Keith that he might not be the only person benefiting from this scattered situation. That maybe the notes have been as much for Shiro as they have been for Keith.

“You heading out again?” he manages.

“Yes,” Shiro says. “I was just going to - ”

He gestures uselessly at the caf machine, which gurgles sadly with another wail of _life ending._

“Gotcha,” Keith says. Shiro picks up his empty mug and fumbles it back in the cupboard, half-awake. It’s kind of endearing. It’s a little pathetic. “Uh. Sorry? You - going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. He closes the cupboard door and sucks in a shaky, deliberate breath. Already the Force is shifting as he pulls it around himself, tucking it in and through. Keith watches, nearly awed, as Shiro blinks stubbornly at the cabinet as he uses the Force to wake up. “I can do this. I’m awake. It’s just…”

Keith waits.

“It was Master Ulaz’s,” Shiro manages, finally. His fingers are flat against the cabinet door; the smile he offers Keith is only half of one. “Before he - before.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“I’m sorry,” Keith says again, quieter. It’s all he can think to give.

Shiro nods, absent acceptance. They’ve never talked about this. Shiro gestures weakly towards the caf machine. “I’ll deal with this when I get back, if that’s okay. I’m - I’m afraid I’m late, now, I have to - ”

“Go,” Keith says, stepping clear of the counter’s opening into the kitchen. “And - hey. It’s good to see you.”

Shiro’s smile this time is true.

“It’s good to see you too,” he says.

The Force hums.

 

Shiro goes. If it wasn’t for his Force signature lingering in the air, so bright and warm even as it fades around the failed caf machine, Keith might wonder if he’d just dreamed the whole thing.

After so long passing notes to one another, this is a bit of a shock. Notes left over a course of months coming out of every situation imaginable. Notes left, exhausted. Notes answered, wide awake. Terrible jokes and stick figures; easy camaraderie. The coffee table, never moved back from the wall. The perpetual bowl still left behind in the sink.

And now this.

 _It is not a bad thing to have people on your side,_ a familiar voice murmurs. The memory’s unbidden; Keith braces a hand on the counter. _People you can count on. People there for_ **_you._ **

_But that’s not what the Code says,_ young Keith had asked, looking up. His Master was too tall. _We’re not supposed to get attached._

His Master smiled, a twitch beneath deep fur. _Nor can we live in fear. Search your feelings, youngling. What do they tell you?_

“Why would you say that, Master?” Keith whispers to the empty air. “Why would you say that and then leave?”

The Force has no answers for him.

The caf machine gurgles again, more acrid electrical smoke. Keith opens his eyes and reaches to unplug it.

Pauses.

The red plant and little rock sit atop the counter. The holopad, for the first time, isn’t blinking.

 _It is not a bad thing,_ his Master said.

 

**05\. Keith is sent on another mission before Shiro returns, which isn’t the surprise.**

The surprise is when Keith’s mission partner, some Arusian Keith’s already forgotten the name of, hollers at him from the cockpit.

“There’s a comm for you from the Temple!”

“From the Temple?” Keith repeats, breaking off his meditation. He’s in the ship’s lounge, passing time on their way back from a somewhat-successful mission (Keith didn’t have to carry anyone. No one died). “Who?”

“For you,” the Arusian says when Keith makes it in, and books it out of the cockpit to give them ‘privacy’. He’s just as eager for this mission to end as Keith.

Fine. Keith settles down in the pilot’s chair, flicking the switch to bring the call out of _hold._ “Keith here.”

 _“Did you buy me a new caf machine?”_ Shiro asks incredulously, and Keith cannot hide his grin.

 

**04\. What happens next is a surprise to nobody else.**

The young page guarding the door to the Council chambers doesn’t usher him in. Keith’s forced to wait in the hall.

He paces. The summons had been purposefully vague; possibilities twist and turn in his head. Maybe they’re finally going to let him fly solo. Maybe they’re bringing him in for the inevitable dressing-down of the Lance Mission. Maybe they’re just going to kick him out of the Jedi Order entirely. Keith’s fingers clench in the fabric of his sleeves.

 _Patience,_ the Force whispers. _Patience._ Keith closes his eyes.

_Patience yields focus._

“Keith?”

Keith’s eyes snap open. The turbolift’s arrived again; someone’s stepped out. Someone he knows.

“Shiro?” Keith blurts.

“What are you doing here?” Shiro asks. He’s in his Jedi robes as well, a bit disheveled. The smell of engine fuel and dirt accompanies him. “Is the Council already in session?”

“I think so,” Keith offers. “I’ve been here for an hour, they won’t -”

“An hour?” Shiro frowns. “But my summons was an hour ago. We got back late. This is the fastest I could get here.”

There’s a pause.

The Force practically purrs.

“If you’ve been here for an hour,” Shiro starts.

“If you were summoned an hour ago - ” Keith overlaps.

“Ah!” says Master Coran, poking his head out of the Council Chambers. “You’re both here! Come in, come in. There’s much to discuss.”

 

**04\. Really, what happens is this: the Council finally hits upon the Obvious.**

“Together?” Keith asks. He’s not gaping. Nope.

“Would that be agreeable?” Master Coran asks. He’s flat-out grinning. The empty seat next to him has finally been filled. An Olkari smiles kindly at Keith, her long fingers steepled and steady.

Keith and Shiro look at one another.

“I suppose,” Shiro says, slowly, but the mischievous glint in his eyes absolutely gives him away.

“If it’ll get you to stop leaving dirty dishes in the sink,” Keith counters, and Shiro throws his head back and laughs.

That’s really, truly, how it begins.

 

**03\. It just snowballs from there.**

They’re given two weeks before the assignment, two glorious weeks in which they’re both home, both present in the same space breathing the same air. There’s - a _feeling_ about this one. Something different. The Force weaves around their preparations, around their ins-and-outs, around the holopad still blinking on the counter.

In the days from _assignment_ to _departure_ , the holopad’s notes shift from _distant_ to _frequent._

 _I’m going down to the commissionary,_ Keith writes. _Comm me if you need something beyond the standard._

 _I can go out, pick up dinner,_ Shiro asks, direct to Keith’s commlink.

 _Not that yellow stuff,_ Keith shoots back.

 _That ‘stuff’ is not that bad,_ Shiro tries. Keith ignores him.

 _I’m here,_ is scrabbled on the holopad’s projection when Keith walks in, bags from the commissionary to pack into other bags slung over his shoulder. _Wake me?_

Keith sets the bags down loudly and finds the stylus. _All you do is sleep._

“I do not,” Shiro protests ten minutes later when he reads it, yawning his way into their living room. His robe’s half around his shoulders, rumpled and messy. Keith rolls his eyes from where he’s putting the food away. “Why did you get all that? We were going down to the mess hall for dinner.”

“We’re not going out,” Keith retorts, shoving a box of instant noodles onto a shelf.

“Fine, we’ll stay in,” Shiro yawns, settling onto a stool and batting at the caf machine to make him a cup. (It’s not the fastest caf machine, but it’s sleek and efficient and gets the job done without groaning in five different forms of binary. _Keith’s caf machine,_ Shiro calls it. Keith hits him every time.) “There’s plenty in the freezer. We can reheat.”

Keith checks. The freezer unit is stocked full of square containers of that terrible yellow _m’caroni_ that’s stained every one of Shiro’s left behind bowls.

“We’re not reheating,” Keith declares, slamming the unit door shut. “That stuff’s awful.”

Shiro raises a pointed eyebrow. “You know how to cook, then?”

“Yes,” Keith lies.

 

One frantic smoke detector, four outraged temple droids, and three thoroughly burned pans later, Shiro and Keith stand staring at each other over the absolutely ruined double plates of their dinner.

“Reheatable?” Shiro asks weakly.

“Reheatable,” Keith agrees faintly, and opens up the freezer.

 

The days pass. They chat, eat, coexist. They finally get that spar in; more than one. Shiro’s _good,_ yes, but so is Keith. They spar again, and again, and again. They’re honestly well-matched. It’s easy. All of this is _easy._

The notes on the holopad are much, much shorter.

 

_Sparring?_

_After lunch, I’ll meet you there._

 

_If I get up and you still haven’t done the dishes I’m not making you breakfast._

_Got home late - wake me._

_No,_ Keith writes back.

 

_Out on errands. I’ll bring back dinner so we don’t set off the alarm again._

_No, Shiro, don’t you dare,_ Keith’s writing before he even thinks of it, diving for his commlink. _Shiro don’t you dare bring more of that yellow stuff!_

_Too late._

 

Shiro’s presence in the Force hangs over the apartment all the time now, strong and bright and real. He never comments on what Keith’s presence might feel like; Keith can’t find a need to compare. They fold in and out and around each other as naturally as breathing. It’s surprising how easy this is.

 _I’m here,_ says the note on the holopad when Keith gets in late one afternoon. _Wake me? I mean it this time._

Keith snorts and goes about putting away the dishes. The sink’s full of them, but at least they’re clean. That’s progress.

It’s not long, though, before the little breeze of wind he’s coming to associate with Shiro lightly shifts. The clouds in the other room - the ones Keith can feel without really being aware of them, always there like a storm just on the edge of Keith’s senses - curl inwards, and then out. The Force murmurs, curious. A tiny tendril lifts the hair by Keith’s ear, a breeze brushing gentle against his cheek.

_?_

_Go back to sleep, Shiro,_ Keith thinks, and the thought is inordinately fond.

 

**02\. They spend more time together than they do apart.**

“Do you still think about Ulaz?” Keith blurts.

They’re out on the balcony in the late evening, the last night before their mission. The sun’s setting, coloring the clouds and the distant skyscrapers in amber and rose golds. Ships bustle off on the horizon, the noise familiar and faint.

“Yes,” Shiro says, simply. The wind rustles through their hair. Keith leans next to him, elbows on the railing. They’re mirrors of each other, almost. “All the time.”

“I’m sorry,” Keith manages. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Shiro shakes his head. “It’s alright. It’s been a while, now. You’ve...heard the story?”

The setting sun glints off the single streak of white in his bangs.

“Yes,” Keith says.

“I don’t remember much of it,” Shiro admits, simply. His eyes are distant. “I’m not sure - I’m not sure if they Knighted me because of it, or because Master Ulaz wasn’t around and there was no one else to finish my training. I suppose I’ll never know.”

Keith can relate. Oh, can Keith relate.

Shiro’s just like him, really. They’re both young. Graduated Jedi, sure, but too young for this. Too young, perhaps, to know and share this sort of grief.

“I still have so many questions,” Shiro says, to the sky. His voice is soft and sorrowed.

“I know,” Keith says. He has to say _something_ . Share _something._ This is an opening; a door. He can see that now. That’s what people do, isn’t it? One secret for another. That’s what friends do.

The words stick in his throat, thick and cloying. The Force swirls behind him, encouraging, but Keith’s. The words. He _can’t._ “My...master. After the Trials, he - he - ”

Keith cannot find the words.

A hand settles on his shoulder, broad, warm, careful.

 _You aren’t alone,_ the touch says. _You don’t have to do this alone._

Keith looks. Shiro’s wearing gloves, too.

“I understand,” Shiro says. He squeezes once, and lets go. His eyes are impossibly deep and full.

Grief is a loss heavy and misunderstood. Keith’s never taken the time for it. There hasn’t _been_ time. Immediately following the worst moment of Keith’s life there were questions to answer. An apartment to return to, echoing and lonely. Missions to complete; an apartment to lose. Partners that never worked. Straining, pushing, trying trying trying so hard to get better. To understand.

There hadn’t been time for grief.

There isn’t time now, maybe. Keith shoves it back, once again pours the feelings to the Force. The Force takes them and swirls them away slowly, reluctantly spinning far and free.

There hasn’t been time. There isn’t time now. But, maybe -

Watching the traffic move and the night awake, with the warmth of the fading sun and the touch of the evening breeze, Keith stands on the balcony of somewhere that might really be his, breathing in the air of a place he might truly be able to call home.

Keith’s standing next to Shiro. Next to a _friend._

Maybe there will be time.

 

“Keith,” Shiro says at last, when the sun’s finally set and the night is well in. “If this mission doesn’t go well tomorrow...”

“It will,” Keith says. “Don’t talk like that.”

“But if it doesn’t,” Shiro insists. “No hard feelings. Okay? We’ve had - I mean. I know we only just met - ”

“Technically,” Keith says.

Shiro blinks. “What?”

“Technically I’ve known you all my life,” Keith starts. “We weren’t far apart in the creche. You’re not that much older than me.”

“Technically, then,” Shiro says. His eyes soften. “Keith, if this doesn’t work out, I don’t want it to ruin our friendship. No hard feelings, okay?”

He holds out his hand.

The Force shifts between them, again and always. An embered flame bursts to life, caught on the wind, sailing upwards into clouds. They are a bonfire, learning to blaze. Sparks, learning to soar.

“Okay,” Keith says, and they shake.

 

He’s got a good feeling about this one.

 

**01\. The mission is a huge, unparalleled success.**

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Master Coran says, beaming at them when they report back to the Council chamber six days later. “How did you accomplish a peace treaty so fast?”

Shiro winks at Keith. Keith grins back.

The Force sings.

“We make a good team,” Shiro says.

 

**00\. Attachment is a risk.**

_Is this what you meant?_ Keith still asks sometimes, to someone who isn’t there.

The Force doesn’t answer. His old Master never will. That time of Keith’s life is over. The question still remains, but for the first time - maybe the answer Keith’s been living is not the one that’s right.

For the first time, maybe there’s another way.

 _Attachment_ is not a part of the Jedi Code. It leads to _preference_ which leads to _difficult choices_ which leads to _impossible._ The fear of loss is a risk. That’s always going to be true. _Attachment_ is dangerous. There’s no beating around it.

What’s also true is that there are Jedi who work together. There’s preferred partnerships, solid field bonds, bonds of friendship and teams that go out on a regular basis. Jedi who work together helping planets, saving people. Jedi as coworkers. Partners. Friends. Jedi who work alone, like Keith. Jedi who work in pairs, like Keith and Shiro.

Keith has Shiro.

Keith has a _friend._ Shiro’s a friend to him, finally, honestly, through and true and at last. Keith’s not going to ruin this. Keith’s not going to _lose_ this. Not after all he and Shiro have been through to get this far. Not after everything that’s coming.

Keith’s never going to let this go.

 

**+1. The call comes, blinking urgent and frantic across the dashboard of their ship.**

Keith’s jolted out of meditation by the emergency signal, beeping loud and frantic through the speakers of the ship.

“- of course,” Shiro’s saying, already finishing the call by the time Keith gets to the cockpit. “We’re on our way.”

 _“Good,”_ says Jedi Master Coran. His form’s tinny through the long-distance holocomm, blue lines shimmering with distance and agitation. His moustache isn’t quite as impeccably groomed as usual. Coran frowns at Keith as the young Jedi skids in, Coran pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. _“And none of your funny business this time, Kogane!”_

“What?” Keith asks, blinking in confusion as Shiro ends the call. “What’s happening?”

“He’s just worried,” Shiro says smoothly. His fingers are already typing, shifting their trajectory across the ship’s computer. Keith heads for the co-pilot’s seat; Shiro shakes his head. “Here. Switch with me. We have a new assignment.”

“Sure,” Keith says, slipping into the pilot’s seat when Shiro vacates. “Was that an emergency frequency? Why would Master Coran be nervous?”

“It was,” Shiro confirms, as they trade places. “A pair of Jedi Knights out here ran into some unexpected trouble. They’ve been separated, and captured. One of them managed to escape and call for back-up.”

Keith leans over, checking Shiro’s calculations quickly. “Let me guess, we’re the back-up. Who is it?”

Shiro hesitates.

“Shiro,” Keith warns.

“Keith,” Shiro says back, in exactly the same tone of voice. It’s totally ruined by that mischievous, amused glint in his eyes.

“Oh no,” Keith says.

“Oh, yes,” Shiro says. “Does the name ‘Lance’ ring any bells?”

Keith’s jaw drops open. “You’re _joking.”_

“The Force does have a sense of humor.”

“Shiro!”

Shiro holds up his hands placatingly, which does nothing to hide the fact that he’s laughing. “Hunk called. He’s frantic. You going to keep him waiting? While Lance languishes in some cell somewhere because brave Jedi Knight Keith Kogane’s carrying a _grudge?”_

“You’re unbelievable,” Keith manages, but there’s no heat in it.

The last time he did a mission with Lance was a disaster, yes, but this is different. Lance isn’t his partner now. _Shiro_ is. Shiro, grinning wide, Force-bright at Keith’s side.

A slow, steady grin spreads across Keith’s face, too.

“What do you say?” Shiro asks, leaning forwards. “Should we go save your arch-nemesis from certain doom and disaster? Rescue him from abject misery, wasting away in torment, knocked-out in some villain’s cell?”

“You get to carry him out this time,” Keith says, and punches in the coordinates for the jump.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked what you read? Please consider leaving a comment! Comments absolutely make my day. You can also come say hi on [tumblr](http://butteredonions.tumblr.com), where the definite AU continuation winner will go up first when it's ready. Come yell!
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


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